Suffering the after effects of a mild hunt – bruises, lethargy, and stinging scratches – was never reason enough to go easy on Dean. When he's an asshole, I'm a bitch. When he plays the silent game, I bring the music back.

Hum under my breath as we're driving back to the motel, Sharika and Sam leaning heads against the back windows, half asleep, and Dean stiffens, hands clenching on the wheel. There's no way he wouldn't be able to recognise the tune – it was one of the best known out there, and a sign. He was pissed at me for throwing myself in front of him, so that he wouldn't get hurt, which was totally my prerogative, both as a hunter, his friend, and his – well, fuck buddy. If he didn't like it, it was his own problem.

So, he dropped the other two off at the motel, and said we were going for a drive. I slipped the tape in as soon as he pulled out of the parking lot, and skidded to a stop a mile down the road as the song I'd just been emulating came on. I smiled as he slammed out of the car, stalking around to my side.

"You're in the mood for a dance, and when you get the chance…"

We have rough, wild, yes-I'm-still-alive sex against the Impala's side, Dancing Queen serenading our moans.

000

I think they've realised by now, even though it's only really been going on for a month. The two of us are too obvious in our hunger for each other, forever coming up with stupid excuses to remove ourselves from their company. They just glance at each other, smile at us and pretend to believe.

I'm using Sam's laptop when Sharika comes into the room, in theory searching for a new hunt, in practice trying to find my next musical hint.

"I found something," she said, as I quickly switched windows, and when I murmured encouragingly at her, faking complete involvement at the screen, she passed over a sheet of paper.

It read Baby Lyrics – and two lines practically jumped out of the page at me;

You can do something I can't
And I can't get enough of it

"What do you think?" she asked, as my eyes shot up to hers, her face completely innocent.

"It's perfect."

000

I was angry. Hell, I'd gone so far through angry I'd come out the other side – now I was furious. And I kind of wanted to kill him.

He thinks it's just fucking fine and dandy for him to get himself all battered up in my honour, or what-the-fuck-ever – and I'm not allowed to do the same? It's Dean, I get it, and I can still love the over protective, somewhat chauvinistic pig. But it doesn't make it any easier for our relationship to not only be unbalanced in emotion, but in power; in fact, it kind of freaking hurts, and possibly the worst thing is he never even realises.

I was sitting in some random bus stop, just outside of the motel's parameters, just kicking back, head resting on the glass, hair falling into my eyes, thinking about Dean. He was maybe eighteen feet away on a sagging motel bed, sleeping in bandages and crappy sheets.

I knew he didn't know he loved me, and that was okay, really, because I didn't need him to. What we had was enough, for now. No matter how much I might want to stab and leave him, bang his head against a few walls until he understood.

A teenager came and sat near me on the seat, arrow-straight red hair tucked behind her plugged ears, tunes bawling out and staining the air. She thumbed the controls of her ipod, the song switched, and the music was so loud I heard it.

"Look into his angel eyes, one look and you're hypnotized…he'll take your heart and you must pay the price…"

Oh, for god's sake – I get it, thank you. Guess I'll just go have to play nurse and make him smile. Guess I'll just have to keep hoping, whatever – but in the meantime, I had a couple of strip-teases to perform to Kisses of Fire; and he wouldn't be able to do a damn thing about it.

000

I wasn't jealous before we met; now every woman I see is a potential threat…

The lyrics ran through my mind over and over, some kind of sick irony, as I watched the waitress bend down more than she needed to, to give Dean his coffee. She smiled at him, fluttered her eyelashes, and I watched her swish away, calculated the velocity, angle and force it would take to get a fork through her kidney at fifty paces.

I mean, come on. What did I have to do? Slap a 'taken' sign on the man's behind? Even that probably wouldn't stop them all – and I swear, if he smirks down all sloppily at one more pair of fake breasts I'm going to –

Instead, he was smirking across the table at me, as though he knew exactly what I was thinking. He took a sip of his coffee, never taking those hazel green magnets off of mine, then licked the clinging black drops away, daring me to do something about the jealousy.

Unsatisfied, I skip my pride… I leant over the table, pressing down on my palms, and kissed him. He tasted like caffeine, and smugness.

000

At the end of the day, he's still an idiot, I still love him, and most of the time he still just doesn't get it. But I have lyrics to say the words I can't, and he always responds. And we have the Impala, his brother, my best friend, to smooth over the roughest patches.

Maybe when he gets his head out of his ass, he'll realise he loves me back, but for now, I'll just skip the angst, slip in an ABBA tape, and make him so hot he can't stand sitting next to me for more than a mile; my hand on the front of his jeans, singing under my breath as he drives, the air whooshing past the windows.

"Love isn't easy, but it sure is hard enough… eye-spy something else that's hard, Dean."

And he slams the brakes.

As per FormerPrincess-VintageQueen's request. I think I might even write a third one, because this feels a little unsatisfying to me – what about you guys? I mean, ABBA did write 140 something songs…didn't they:D